Another police story

Equally scary as the middle-of-the-night phone calls every mother dreads are the middle-of-the-night knockings at the door. Or in this case, the yelling outside the door, which is the same as a doorbell in rural parts of Mexico. As long as I live I will never forget the terror of having Jim wake me with the ominous words, "Quick. You need to get up. The police are outside the door. They have Mike down at the police station!"

Yeah, that was a proud missionary mom kind of moment. What on earth? I thought Mike and some friends were camping out on the mountain. No, it turns out that he and his buddies wanted something a bit more challenging to climb than a lame ol' mountain. They were caught climbing the telephone tower instead. Turns out the tower is behind a wall that clearly states "Federal Property." This brought new meaning to the phrase "federal offense." As you know, the Federales are notorious in Mexico, and not to be trifled with.

Thankfully after visiting the "scene of the crime" we were escorted to the guilty parties at the police station here in our small town. Turns out only Mike and one other friend were caught. The others had run off, and were even then skulking around buildings in town, terrified of being found. I was all for leaving the boys in jail overnight, a la Love and Logic (for a lesson they'd never forget!), but the kids were released on house arrest, provided they bring fathers and show up for court the next morning with the accomplices and dads. Our car was left at the station as collateral.

The next day turned out to be almost laughable. The "judge" recognized Jim and let the boys off way too lightly for their crime. Whatever fine they had to pay was minimal. That's when one of the dads suggested "community service" to help imprint the lesson on youthful brains. So on this day, give or take, a few years ago, Mike and his three friends were found at the cemetery cleaning all the rotten food and wilted flowers and the altars from Day of the Dead. Then they had to wash squad cars. And finally they had to play basketball with the cops.

It was always funny after that to hear the policemen greet Mike by name and ask if he'd play basketball with them again. I think they chalked it up to boyhood antics and even laughed about it. To them the only crime was the trespassing. So you know what they did? They offered to unlock the gate any time the boys got the urge to climb the tower again! Think they learned their lesson from that? Doubtful.

On a side note, I remember the telling silence on the other end of the phone when I called Chris and Tim to ask them to pray about the court hearing. I wanted some sympathy. Poor Mom, after all, with all this unmerited grief. Mom, the story teller, who wouldn't dare send out a prayer update for her son who was possibly heading off to prison. (What would people think?!) No, instead my sons were doing their best to refrain from laughing. Turns out they, the mature college kids, had actually introduced this sport to our little town over Christmas break.

On another side note, Mike is my son who today enjoys going into the prison in California to preach and minister to the inmates. I wonder if he ever considers that he might have been on the other side of those bars if things had turned out differently.... Nah, only moms think of those alternate scenarios.

I'm just thankful once again that my older boys survived their teen years to tell the tales, hopeful that Jonny will have more common sense and caution than the brothers he idolizes. Come January I will have another teenage boy in the house! Chris, Tim, and Mike are now 24, 22, and 20.

You'd have to zoom this picture out to see the nasty cockroaches on the fruit

(Here's the other story about Mike and the police.)